God says He does not change. He wants us to wear white garments before Him Sometimes it’s hard to know how in the chaos of today’s world, which reminds me that Moses was read in the synagogues year on year until the promise of Christ was fulfilled.
In other words keep the commandments, something we are told to forget about under the new (hallelujah) covenant but which doesn’t always make sense in day to day life)
Lord deliver us from evil. Each generation has a right to hear of the goodness of Christ.
We are about to move into the garage conversion. By design, to let our legs rest from the stair climb to our current upstairs abode. Also to give us more space to roam around in downstairs. It should be finished around end of January.
Poor Zimbabwe, the home of our birth. Poor people! Lord increase the fruits of the beatitudes to them.
Thursday, 17 January 2019
Wednesday, 16 January 2019
St Peter
We are made aware of the intense tribulation coming on the world in the last days. St Peter gives good advice when he reminds us to live godly lives adding each day to the godliness of our living, ‘for if you do these things you will never fall’
Perseverance is good and produces fruit. How many of us set aside a day for yearning after the Lord? Be it Sunday or Saturday or any other day of the week, one of them in each week belongs to the Lord. When one remembers the faithfulness of the Jewish people to this day, remembering the Sabbath, one is awed by their perseverance. Not to sound frivolous, but God must be too, for sin had not been covered then.
Keep believing, keep hoping, keep watching. Pray for the peace of Jerusalem and that the Word would yet go out from there.
Jesus is one being with the Father. Full of grace and truth. Remember the thief on the cross? Jesus accepted him even as he died.
Perseverance is good and produces fruit. How many of us set aside a day for yearning after the Lord? Be it Sunday or Saturday or any other day of the week, one of them in each week belongs to the Lord. When one remembers the faithfulness of the Jewish people to this day, remembering the Sabbath, one is awed by their perseverance. Not to sound frivolous, but God must be too, for sin had not been covered then.
Keep believing, keep hoping, keep watching. Pray for the peace of Jerusalem and that the Word would yet go out from there.
Jesus is one being with the Father. Full of grace and truth. Remember the thief on the cross? Jesus accepted him even as he died.
Monday, 14 January 2019
Jesus exalted
Jesus is the best thing that ever happened for man. Exalt Him among the nations and May His glory be seen above the earth. Hallelujah
Saturday, 5 November 2016
A quick trip to Spain
We needed to view an olive farm which was for sale, and which we had an interest to purchase.
A quick review of possible dates when our son was able to drive us there, showed that a windown of opportunity existed from the very early morning of Friday to return by Sunday around eleven p.m.
We duly booked a chunnel crossing to coincide with the time we had, and off we set. This, on 24 hour notice.
Why didn't we just fly out? Reus airport was the nearest to our destination. However we are a retired couple who only know a smattering of Spanish and no Catalan at all. Which was why our son came with, he having spent four or more years teaching TEFL in Spain.
Catalan is not Spanish. Franco, when he ruled Spain, would not even allow Catalan to be taught in schools, or be found in print anywhere. Which is probably one reason why now Catalans want autonomy from Spain.
The chunnel crossing was really a culmination of a quite extraordinary piece of engineering. You are not aware of actually going under the English Channel. One supposes it must be a journey of perhaps 30 miles, as the exit from the UK is Folkestone and the arrival Calais. The time this takes is 35 minutes of mostly darkness. 35 minutes. That is all. Your drive on and you drive off. Just imagine if the walls gave way and the chunnel flooded!
Refugees have tried walking through it to get into the UK. They managed to get about half way,
before being spotted. How wretched are their circumstances that they are willing to risk walking
along in the dark (maybe had a torch?) next to a fast moving train.
before being spotted. How wretched are their circumstances that they are willing to risk walking
along in the dark (maybe had a torch?) next to a fast moving train.
Our outward journey was as smooth as the sea which the owl and the pussycat sailed on. Our return chunnel journey was a little wobbly, but none the less uneventful.
OK! So we travelled about 3500 miles in 72 hours. That included 2 nights in an hotel plus time to actually view the property.
France does more farming than Spain. Vineyards were plentiful. We took the route north of Paris and then south along the border with Germany and Italy then through Peripignan, where we spent our first night and across the border into Spain.
The hotel accommodation in Peripignan was exactly what we needed. A double room and a single room with bunk beds very clean and tidy. An en-suite easily accessible from both rooms, and a
lovely filling breakfast fuelled us for the next day.
We left slighter later than planned. Our destination was Benifallet on the River Ebro. Thing is, we had no post code, just hand written directions on how to get there. And that was a big mistake. When you go 1700 odd miles to view a property, you really, really need quite specific directions.
lovely filling breakfast fuelled us for the next day.
We left slighter later than planned. Our destination was Benifallet on the River Ebro. Thing is, we had no post code, just hand written directions on how to get there. And that was a big mistake. When you go 1700 odd miles to view a property, you really, really need quite specific directions.
Once off the main motor way, the satnav hiccupped. It got the hump and persisted on staying on 'walking' mode. So we went to Reus, which was south of our destination and had to turn north again. Actually this didn't turn out badly because the hand written directions were from Reus going north.
We crossed the wide tranquil River Ebro at riverside town of Benifallet with its dominant Church and started the climb up to the olive farm. All was well. Our directions were to look out for 3 specific road signs and once we had seen those we were to turn immediately left onto a dirt track. Great, we did that. It was an appalling little stone track that came to an end pretty quickly.
We took to our feet and crunched uphill as far as we could go. Then we went horizontal for as far as possible. Then more uphill. Happily, a gentleman had come to tend his olive trees with his dogs. No doubt he had grave concerns about our presence Once we showed him our map though, he was sympathetic. We needed to go further down the road, he said. (His olive trees were in good shape and from the branches of six or seven, hung the simple fly repeller. A 2 litre plastic bottle with a hole near the top and bait inside at the bottom.)Simple, environmentally friendly and effective.
We took to our feet and crunched uphill as far as we could go. Then we went horizontal for as far as possible. Then more uphill. Happily, a gentleman had come to tend his olive trees with his dogs. No doubt he had grave concerns about our presence Once we showed him our map though, he was sympathetic. We needed to go further down the road, he said. (His olive trees were in good shape and from the branches of six or seven, hung the simple fly repeller. A 2 litre plastic bottle with a hole near the top and bait inside at the bottom.)Simple, environmentally friendly and effective.
There were at least 3 carob trees growing. Their pods have such a pleasing scent. Animals eat them and they were probably the pods which the prodigal son ate when he found himself penniless and friendless. 'And he would gladly have filled his stomach with the pods that the swine ate'.
So off we went. The owner had posted a photograph of the entrance to the property from the main road. Remember we were hundreds of miles away from home and his specific road signs had not
worked.
worked.
We found the photograph entrance. The problem was it was on the wrong side of the road from our first effort. What to do? Try. Well that was fruitless too, and involved a lot of walking. Still no sign
of the farm we had seen in the photographs. Each time we met a dead end we would go back to the entrance and start again. Walking around in the bush trying to find the property, one became aware of the neglect of many many olive groves which were obviously cared for in times past.
Ones shoes took a toll. My husband's soles separated from the upper part of his shoe. He didn't tell us though. It was only at a petrol stop sometime later where we went on to buy lunch that the flap flap flap sound of the leather hit us!
The roadside stops for food and petrol are very much better in Spain than France. Spain gave one more choice a hot meal. France offered the same food in virtually all its petrol stops. Pity really, one could assume they have enough variety in their town shopping to make the road stops more interesting,
of the farm we had seen in the photographs. Each time we met a dead end we would go back to the entrance and start again. Walking around in the bush trying to find the property, one became aware of the neglect of many many olive groves which were obviously cared for in times past.
Ones shoes took a toll. My husband's soles separated from the upper part of his shoe. He didn't tell us though. It was only at a petrol stop sometime later where we went on to buy lunch that the flap flap flap sound of the leather hit us!
The roadside stops for food and petrol are very much better in Spain than France. Spain gave one more choice a hot meal. France offered the same food in virtually all its petrol stops. Pity really, one could assume they have enough variety in their town shopping to make the road stops more interesting,
Providentially, a police car came and parked in the entrance opposite us. In desperation, we eventually decided to elicit their help. One wonders if they were considering ourselves to be up to no good!
Our son's Catalan was very useful. The Police were very ready to help. We needed to turn off on their side of the road, in the entrance to where they were parked. And we were to keep left. Keep left
all the time. I guess it is OK to say 'keep left' if you know where the main track actually is.
After many trips on the network of dirt tracks that spread out like the branches of a tree, we finally, literally, found one which went up another hill, at the top of which was the T junction we had looked out for.
This was IT. Take a right turn and shortly after we were there! In retrospect I guess, we would have
been in a more positive frame of mind when viewing the property. The location was brilliant. Quiet,
peaceful with a gentle cool breeze. No-one could fault it.
The house though was disappointing. Probably because the resident caretaker had moved in and his belongings were scattered everywhere. There was not much leg room to get through it all, making the layout of the house difficult to visualise.
The terraces of olives and almonds still existed but needed care as the overgrowth seemed to be what
Had benefitted most from the years of non occupation of the premises.
We were there for about 90 minutes. We enjoyed the water from the cisterna on the premises, a very big plus because drinking water is scarce in remote mountain districts.
One can however get agricultural water to the premises fairly easily. The water comes from the River
Ebro. Solar power drove the lighting system. A stable block for horses completed the building on the property. All in all, it was a very viable proposition for what we wanted to do.
Our journey back was again, a rush. This time we crossed the neck of Spain/France entering France from the Pamplona, the bull fighting city of Spain. From Pamplona to Bordeau then Tours, Rouen, Calais. It was fortunate that we had bought a road map because our satnav wanted to send us to Paris all the time. By choosing the city we wanted to go to we avoided Paris. Rouen is on the other side of the river Seine, and there is no direct bridge crossing. The road jiggles around until you point to Le Havre and along the way you get back onto the road from Rouen.
We got to Calais early. Our booking was the last that evening, but there must have been fewer passengers because we were put on an earlier hour crossing. We were extremely grateful for that because it meant an earlier arrival in Oxford, our son's final destination.
Why oh why does the UK block off parts of the M1 and M25 at night. There is NO warning of this. Suddenly you find yourself unable to continue your journey and are given no clear instructions on how to get to one's destination.!! It is so difficult to navigate around London at night. Now if I were in charge of the Department of road workers.... LOL
Have to say, the Lord Jesus ensured we had a safe journey. Our prayer was, "make our journey safe both for ourselves and others, please Lord Jesus.
all the time. I guess it is OK to say 'keep left' if you know where the main track actually is.
After many trips on the network of dirt tracks that spread out like the branches of a tree, we finally, literally, found one which went up another hill, at the top of which was the T junction we had looked out for.
This was IT. Take a right turn and shortly after we were there! In retrospect I guess, we would have
been in a more positive frame of mind when viewing the property. The location was brilliant. Quiet,
peaceful with a gentle cool breeze. No-one could fault it.
The house though was disappointing. Probably because the resident caretaker had moved in and his belongings were scattered everywhere. There was not much leg room to get through it all, making the layout of the house difficult to visualise.
The terraces of olives and almonds still existed but needed care as the overgrowth seemed to be what
Had benefitted most from the years of non occupation of the premises.
We were there for about 90 minutes. We enjoyed the water from the cisterna on the premises, a very big plus because drinking water is scarce in remote mountain districts.
One can however get agricultural water to the premises fairly easily. The water comes from the River
Ebro. Solar power drove the lighting system. A stable block for horses completed the building on the property. All in all, it was a very viable proposition for what we wanted to do.
Our journey back was again, a rush. This time we crossed the neck of Spain/France entering France from the Pamplona, the bull fighting city of Spain. From Pamplona to Bordeau then Tours, Rouen, Calais. It was fortunate that we had bought a road map because our satnav wanted to send us to Paris all the time. By choosing the city we wanted to go to we avoided Paris. Rouen is on the other side of the river Seine, and there is no direct bridge crossing. The road jiggles around until you point to Le Havre and along the way you get back onto the road from Rouen.
We got to Calais early. Our booking was the last that evening, but there must have been fewer passengers because we were put on an earlier hour crossing. We were extremely grateful for that because it meant an earlier arrival in Oxford, our son's final destination.
Why oh why does the UK block off parts of the M1 and M25 at night. There is NO warning of this. Suddenly you find yourself unable to continue your journey and are given no clear instructions on how to get to one's destination.!! It is so difficult to navigate around London at night. Now if I were in charge of the Department of road workers.... LOL
Have to say, the Lord Jesus ensured we had a safe journey. Our prayer was, "make our journey safe both for ourselves and others, please Lord Jesus.
Sunday, 7 August 2016
El Salvador's working class
Walking to Plaza Merliot meant we crossed the busiest intersection on the way.
A little boy, about 6 years old was at the front of the stopped traffic. He had taken the opportunity, while the lights were red, to earn some money by entertaining the driver's of the mainly huge trucks waiting for the lights to change.
He had two sticks to which was attached a cord. A sort of bobbin was thrown up and down and caught in the middle of the cord.
He was totally not put off by the fact that he couldn't really do the trick, he was entertaining them by walking in between the huge trucks which would hardly have been able to see him if they moved off quickly. He was earning 'bread' for his family, and was enjoying doing so. The family consisted of 3 youngish women and at least 4 other younger siblings. All quite accustomed to what was going on. What a spirit!
There is a disparity in income in El Salvador. This is nothing new among the nations. In El Salvador though, street vending does not bring down the long arm of the law on your head. Citizens wheel their carts around making themselves visible to the population. They employed no coercion. You buy if you want. And people bought. The days were really hot so shaved ice in a cup, sweetened with whatever syrup took your fancy, was very refreshing.
Another vender had a backpack filled with thermos flasks containing coffee which thirsty customers in the cooler evenings purchased. People gathered in the parks after work with their families providing a ready footfall of potential buyers. One cannot help thinking that the Almighty looks down with tender love on these 'less fortunate in cash and education' people who nevertheless find joy and a reason to live in each day. Reminds one of Jesus' response to Peter when Peter told Him to 'pity Himself'.
A little boy, about 6 years old was at the front of the stopped traffic. He had taken the opportunity, while the lights were red, to earn some money by entertaining the driver's of the mainly huge trucks waiting for the lights to change.
He had two sticks to which was attached a cord. A sort of bobbin was thrown up and down and caught in the middle of the cord.
He was totally not put off by the fact that he couldn't really do the trick, he was entertaining them by walking in between the huge trucks which would hardly have been able to see him if they moved off quickly. He was earning 'bread' for his family, and was enjoying doing so. The family consisted of 3 youngish women and at least 4 other younger siblings. All quite accustomed to what was going on. What a spirit!
There is a disparity in income in El Salvador. This is nothing new among the nations. In El Salvador though, street vending does not bring down the long arm of the law on your head. Citizens wheel their carts around making themselves visible to the population. They employed no coercion. You buy if you want. And people bought. The days were really hot so shaved ice in a cup, sweetened with whatever syrup took your fancy, was very refreshing.
Another vender had a backpack filled with thermos flasks containing coffee which thirsty customers in the cooler evenings purchased. People gathered in the parks after work with their families providing a ready footfall of potential buyers. One cannot help thinking that the Almighty looks down with tender love on these 'less fortunate in cash and education' people who nevertheless find joy and a reason to live in each day. Reminds one of Jesus' response to Peter when Peter told Him to 'pity Himself'.
Thursday, 4 August 2016
Caring El Salvador
A lot of good work goes on in El Salvador. Many people care for others.
One group of Christians held a men's prayer breakfast weekly, seeking the Lord's face as to what to do for His work. They met regularly over a period of months. At some point during those months, one of the men described what he had unwittingly come across during his daily work.
He had entered an old delapidated building and found an elderly woman living, not on her own, but surrounded by 50 babies, all in various stages of neglect. Some had big sores caused by over-wearing badly soiled diapers. All were malnourished and the stench, he said, was overpowering.
This woman rescued unwanted babies and did everything she could to keep them alive. Her task was overwhelming but she was undaunted. She had no apparent means of support and was not a registered orphanage.
The men's group decided to take a look and they too, were horrified by the outward condition of what they found. They did a clean-up for her and left, feeling vindicated to some degree by their good deed.
They continued to meet, asking the Lord to show them what they should do to further His Kingdom
on earth. Slowly it dawned on them that G-d had in fact answered their prayer. They had just been avoiding the answer as it was so very much outside any of their combined curriculum vitaes.
Still, having awakened to the need, they put hearts and soul into the work that needed to be done.
Today they have a 30 acre property for the housing and use of el salvadoran orphans.
This is just one group. Another, seeing a similar need among El Salvadorans orphaned population have bought a 10 acre property and are working towards a sustainable community where house
parents look after 6 or 8 orphans per unit, and sustain the community with a hydroponic fish unit
combined with vegetable growing and poultry. This is a rural community. The first thing that needed
to be done was to build a wall around the acreage to provide a degree of safety. A gang culture still exits in parts of the country.
Sadly there is a culture in El Salvador of sexual misconduct. Incest is common in some communities and women see little hope of breaking away from the cycle. Their attitude is rooted in 'it happened to me so it is likely to happen to my daughter too'. This is not something necessarily connected to poor families. In fact, many poorer families are free it. (I am quoting an orphanage worker in this paragraph and cannot say for sure that the problem is country wide.). It is a generational problem which needs to be addressed.
A brief reference to the gang culture. Our son has a small beach front property on the La Libertad
coast. A river borders the side of the property and across the river is a shanty town area. The employed builder related the previous day's events to our son when he went down to check on the building progress.
Apparently a gang from the shanty area had crossed the river (very easy to do) and used the accommodation on the property for a night's stay. On leaving, he related, they marked the property on the outside wall with their logo, an X. Sure enough, an X existed. So the tale having been told, what should the outcome be?
" Scratch out the X"- was our sons instruction.
This was met with disbelief and astonishment. "If the X is scratched out, that will anger the gang so much that they will seek you out to harm you", our son was told.
He persisted though, and the X was duly removed. There were no repercussions.
What he did notice though was that young people came to stand underneath the trees on the short rubbish littered drive to the property because they could connect to the hotel's wifi, the hotel being opposite to our son's property. Sometimes there is a simple reason for what seem to be difficulties.
One group of Christians held a men's prayer breakfast weekly, seeking the Lord's face as to what to do for His work. They met regularly over a period of months. At some point during those months, one of the men described what he had unwittingly come across during his daily work.
He had entered an old delapidated building and found an elderly woman living, not on her own, but surrounded by 50 babies, all in various stages of neglect. Some had big sores caused by over-wearing badly soiled diapers. All were malnourished and the stench, he said, was overpowering.
This woman rescued unwanted babies and did everything she could to keep them alive. Her task was overwhelming but she was undaunted. She had no apparent means of support and was not a registered orphanage.
The men's group decided to take a look and they too, were horrified by the outward condition of what they found. They did a clean-up for her and left, feeling vindicated to some degree by their good deed.
They continued to meet, asking the Lord to show them what they should do to further His Kingdom
on earth. Slowly it dawned on them that G-d had in fact answered their prayer. They had just been avoiding the answer as it was so very much outside any of their combined curriculum vitaes.
Still, having awakened to the need, they put hearts and soul into the work that needed to be done.
Today they have a 30 acre property for the housing and use of el salvadoran orphans.
This is just one group. Another, seeing a similar need among El Salvadorans orphaned population have bought a 10 acre property and are working towards a sustainable community where house
parents look after 6 or 8 orphans per unit, and sustain the community with a hydroponic fish unit
combined with vegetable growing and poultry. This is a rural community. The first thing that needed
to be done was to build a wall around the acreage to provide a degree of safety. A gang culture still exits in parts of the country.
Sadly there is a culture in El Salvador of sexual misconduct. Incest is common in some communities and women see little hope of breaking away from the cycle. Their attitude is rooted in 'it happened to me so it is likely to happen to my daughter too'. This is not something necessarily connected to poor families. In fact, many poorer families are free it. (I am quoting an orphanage worker in this paragraph and cannot say for sure that the problem is country wide.). It is a generational problem which needs to be addressed.
A brief reference to the gang culture. Our son has a small beach front property on the La Libertad
coast. A river borders the side of the property and across the river is a shanty town area. The employed builder related the previous day's events to our son when he went down to check on the building progress.
Apparently a gang from the shanty area had crossed the river (very easy to do) and used the accommodation on the property for a night's stay. On leaving, he related, they marked the property on the outside wall with their logo, an X. Sure enough, an X existed. So the tale having been told, what should the outcome be?
" Scratch out the X"- was our sons instruction.
This was met with disbelief and astonishment. "If the X is scratched out, that will anger the gang so much that they will seek you out to harm you", our son was told.
He persisted though, and the X was duly removed. There were no repercussions.
What he did notice though was that young people came to stand underneath the trees on the short rubbish littered drive to the property because they could connect to the hotel's wifi, the hotel being opposite to our son's property. Sometimes there is a simple reason for what seem to be difficulties.
Wednesday, 3 August 2016
El Salvador's buses.
Where private transport is in short supply, mini buses are an acceptable way of getting around. People can be packed in to capacity and more.
One day we visited downtown San Salvador with a young El Salvadoran Mum and her lovely young, well mannered son, on pirate bus number 42. Downtown is the main market near the main Catholic Cathedral. On arrival, we walked a lot. The young man came along to ensure that my husband, who looks around a LOT, was kept within sight of the young Mum and myself. The young Mum was the tour guide.
The best part of the market was the best cheese and lorroco pupusas we had eaten in El Salvador at what could have been the dirtiest food stall in the market.
It was a well spent day though. There is not a lot to say about the market that differentiates it from markets anywhere. It was busy, varied and packed tight with people. Oh yes, one stand-out happening was a shoe repair. Repairs are done at a stall with every imaginable machine available. All old-tech.
My shoe needed stitching where the cross strap had loosened from the buckle. A similar repair at home would cost about ten dollars. At this market it cost 25 cents as was done in 3 minutes.
The mini buses are not pirate taxis. They just look like them. You pay 25c for any journey within the outer limits of San Salvador. This No. 42 was not to be outdone by any other in its fleet. One felt thankful that the chassis used unseen hands to hold on tight to the cab partly because the nuts and bolts doing the job looked to have long given up the uphill fight. Why we weren't left sitting on the
seats while the driver and chassis took off is one of the less talked about blessings of El Salvador!
On this return journey, my husband had basically disappeared down to the floor boards on his seat at the back, with young Mum and son doing their best not to sit on top of him.
Eventually I carefully put my elbows inside the cab part lest they scrape on the ground around some of the corners. A jest ofcourse. It just felt as though we leaned over so much as we took the corners.
We made it home in the tic of an eyelid.
El Salvador really blessed us, as the man with the second world was helmet told us it would, first time we came.
One day we visited downtown San Salvador with a young El Salvadoran Mum and her lovely young, well mannered son, on pirate bus number 42. Downtown is the main market near the main Catholic Cathedral. On arrival, we walked a lot. The young man came along to ensure that my husband, who looks around a LOT, was kept within sight of the young Mum and myself. The young Mum was the tour guide.
The best part of the market was the best cheese and lorroco pupusas we had eaten in El Salvador at what could have been the dirtiest food stall in the market.
It was a well spent day though. There is not a lot to say about the market that differentiates it from markets anywhere. It was busy, varied and packed tight with people. Oh yes, one stand-out happening was a shoe repair. Repairs are done at a stall with every imaginable machine available. All old-tech.
My shoe needed stitching where the cross strap had loosened from the buckle. A similar repair at home would cost about ten dollars. At this market it cost 25 cents as was done in 3 minutes.
The mini buses are not pirate taxis. They just look like them. You pay 25c for any journey within the outer limits of San Salvador. This No. 42 was not to be outdone by any other in its fleet. One felt thankful that the chassis used unseen hands to hold on tight to the cab partly because the nuts and bolts doing the job looked to have long given up the uphill fight. Why we weren't left sitting on the
seats while the driver and chassis took off is one of the less talked about blessings of El Salvador!
On this return journey, my husband had basically disappeared down to the floor boards on his seat at the back, with young Mum and son doing their best not to sit on top of him.
Eventually I carefully put my elbows inside the cab part lest they scrape on the ground around some of the corners. A jest ofcourse. It just felt as though we leaned over so much as we took the corners.
We made it home in the tic of an eyelid.
El Salvador really blessed us, as the man with the second world was helmet told us it would, first time we came.
El Salvador's airport - Comalapa or Monseñor Óscar Arnulfo Romero International Airport,
Comalapa International Airport is now officially called Monseñor Óscar Arnulfo Romero International Airport. Flying into it can take you on a huge turn out and over the sea to approach the runway in the correct direction. The airport staff are lovely and take their job very seriously.
Leaving from the Airport to fly home was an experience not easily forgotten. Perhaps it was just a bad day for everyone.
Our son got us there on time and saw us safely through check-in where they take your bags to the hold. This involves a 'bags and feet' search. Why one needs to take off one's shoes remains a mystery, especially since it happened frequently on this exit trip. One's toes remain the same length throughout, nothing changes.
So. We had at least two more 'bags and feet' searches before we arrived at the scanners. Even though we had confessed all our airport sins at this point, they did not like either my husband's green book bag or the camera case. The airport was really crowded and my husband likes notebooks with wire spiral bindings. He packs these into every pocket and then pats all his pockets to find them at each search.
We snorkelled off to the regurgitating table where the lady with the glove went through everything, finding the used stick of shaving soap the most suspicious item of all. On the suggestion that she break it in half, she finally satisfied herself be confiscating his penknife, parting him from a lifelong companion, almost.
Having exhausted us emotionally, we snorkelled some more, this time to the duty free area where we bought body cream. Having always wanted to buy something from thr duty free area, it is no longer a desire. It was not a good idea. One can only reach the duty free once one's main luggage has been dispatched leaving hand luggage as thr only permissable item.
The next stop was the gate check-in. More regurgitating and more husband's feet checks. (They seemed not to ne concerned by my feet).
My guy though was thrown off balance by the duty free. He read and re-read the receipt, but try as he might, it kept saying the same thing. An English speaking guard joined us. The issue was that the cream could not be taken onto the plane in the hand luggage. Can anyone see the oddness of this?
There was more to come. The seating area in Gate 9 is cordoned off with a rope. Got that? With a rope, singular. Those inside the rope area must not talk to those outside the rope area, so a guard with a walkie talkie informs you.
If you leave the rope area to go to the toilet or buy a drink, you have to be body searched to get back in. The two of us shared a coke which meant I was body searched to get out and having had my share, was body searrched to get back in. Same with my husband but while he was outside the rope area, they
began boarding our flight. I was with the luggage so my husband made his way back first going through two more regurgitating of body but not feet. This time the searcher did not like my husband's eye drops or the two tiny inoffensive underarms. (What do they do with this confiscated stuff?)
Why did we share the coke? Mostly to help pass the time.
Next, the intercom wishfully asked for my husband's upstairs presence. We never found out why because the security guard told us to ignore it and board the plane to leave the airport, which we did though slightly lighter than our arrival.
No doubt there are good reasons behind all airport security though.
Leaving from the Airport to fly home was an experience not easily forgotten. Perhaps it was just a bad day for everyone.
Our son got us there on time and saw us safely through check-in where they take your bags to the hold. This involves a 'bags and feet' search. Why one needs to take off one's shoes remains a mystery, especially since it happened frequently on this exit trip. One's toes remain the same length throughout, nothing changes.
So. We had at least two more 'bags and feet' searches before we arrived at the scanners. Even though we had confessed all our airport sins at this point, they did not like either my husband's green book bag or the camera case. The airport was really crowded and my husband likes notebooks with wire spiral bindings. He packs these into every pocket and then pats all his pockets to find them at each search.
We snorkelled off to the regurgitating table where the lady with the glove went through everything, finding the used stick of shaving soap the most suspicious item of all. On the suggestion that she break it in half, she finally satisfied herself be confiscating his penknife, parting him from a lifelong companion, almost.
Having exhausted us emotionally, we snorkelled some more, this time to the duty free area where we bought body cream. Having always wanted to buy something from thr duty free area, it is no longer a desire. It was not a good idea. One can only reach the duty free once one's main luggage has been dispatched leaving hand luggage as thr only permissable item.
The next stop was the gate check-in. More regurgitating and more husband's feet checks. (They seemed not to ne concerned by my feet).
My guy though was thrown off balance by the duty free. He read and re-read the receipt, but try as he might, it kept saying the same thing. An English speaking guard joined us. The issue was that the cream could not be taken onto the plane in the hand luggage. Can anyone see the oddness of this?
There was more to come. The seating area in Gate 9 is cordoned off with a rope. Got that? With a rope, singular. Those inside the rope area must not talk to those outside the rope area, so a guard with a walkie talkie informs you.
If you leave the rope area to go to the toilet or buy a drink, you have to be body searched to get back in. The two of us shared a coke which meant I was body searched to get out and having had my share, was body searrched to get back in. Same with my husband but while he was outside the rope area, they
began boarding our flight. I was with the luggage so my husband made his way back first going through two more regurgitating of body but not feet. This time the searcher did not like my husband's eye drops or the two tiny inoffensive underarms. (What do they do with this confiscated stuff?)
Why did we share the coke? Mostly to help pass the time.
Next, the intercom wishfully asked for my husband's upstairs presence. We never found out why because the security guard told us to ignore it and board the plane to leave the airport, which we did though slightly lighter than our arrival.
No doubt there are good reasons behind all airport security though.
Tuesday, 2 August 2016
Retirement
There are those one hears about who suffer from a compulsion to be up and doing, activated by the calendar and clock to be earning money, even if they don't in fact need it, by effort and application from pay day to pay day.
My feeling for such folk is one of wondering admiration but I cannot imagine myself among their number. Effort and application are worth attributes, certainly. But my feeling is that if one has put them into operation for forty years or more in the business of getting married, raising a family, purchasing perhaps one's own dwelling, laying by, if circumstances permit, for the future, then, by the end of three-score years and five, retirement is a wonderfully thing.
Retirement, that is, if you received a pension that covers the necessary cost of living. if you have the goof fortune to live in a country that accords benefits such as health care, local bust travel, and others that transfer the burdens of life's basic essentials from you back to the broader shoulders of Government, then there seems to me to be no valid reason to keep working.
To help the children get on to their feet, perhaps? A fine and worthy sentiment, but do they really need your help? The quicker they learn how to live within their means, the happier they will be. If you pension is adequate for your own reasonable comfort and security, you can always put by each month to treat your offspring and their families to treats according to your ability.
No, I see no problem, ethical or practical, to hinder the enjoyment of one's 'declining years' as they are so insensitively sometimes termed. Of course, in the nature of things, general circumstances may change, causing conditions to arise that affect the normal course of life, in which case you, as a grandparent, will wish to assist those affected to the limit of your ability.
That situation changes everything, and it could be argued that his happens so often during a lifetime that an emergency reserve should be factored in to the regular cost of living.
So, just as a general rule then, it still seems to me that those who have served their country and community for most of their adult life, raised a family to the point of being able to fend adequately for themselves, deserve to enjoy their autumn years doing those things they always wanted to but never had the time - or just, with a clear conscience, take things easy. That's the theory anyway. But if you want to keep working in a job, and it's not too much for you - why not?
My feeling for such folk is one of wondering admiration but I cannot imagine myself among their number. Effort and application are worth attributes, certainly. But my feeling is that if one has put them into operation for forty years or more in the business of getting married, raising a family, purchasing perhaps one's own dwelling, laying by, if circumstances permit, for the future, then, by the end of three-score years and five, retirement is a wonderfully thing.
Retirement, that is, if you received a pension that covers the necessary cost of living. if you have the goof fortune to live in a country that accords benefits such as health care, local bust travel, and others that transfer the burdens of life's basic essentials from you back to the broader shoulders of Government, then there seems to me to be no valid reason to keep working.
To help the children get on to their feet, perhaps? A fine and worthy sentiment, but do they really need your help? The quicker they learn how to live within their means, the happier they will be. If you pension is adequate for your own reasonable comfort and security, you can always put by each month to treat your offspring and their families to treats according to your ability.
No, I see no problem, ethical or practical, to hinder the enjoyment of one's 'declining years' as they are so insensitively sometimes termed. Of course, in the nature of things, general circumstances may change, causing conditions to arise that affect the normal course of life, in which case you, as a grandparent, will wish to assist those affected to the limit of your ability.
That situation changes everything, and it could be argued that his happens so often during a lifetime that an emergency reserve should be factored in to the regular cost of living.
So, just as a general rule then, it still seems to me that those who have served their country and community for most of their adult life, raised a family to the point of being able to fend adequately for themselves, deserve to enjoy their autumn years doing those things they always wanted to but never had the time - or just, with a clear conscience, take things easy. That's the theory anyway. But if you want to keep working in a job, and it's not too much for you - why not?
This is the day the Lord has made
It is the third week of September, summer should have been over but instead it is clinging on with bravado, twining its fingers into the wispy sky and smoothing the sunshine into hidden corners, prying into winter's domain.
We went sloe picking. We noticed them on our walks last year. One tree in particular had an abundance of large sloes, well rounded and glistening with the familiar musky covering that picks up the sunshine and turns them a deep-hued purple. We found a recipe online and used them to make slow berry jelly, musical, like sloe belly jelly, though the inference connected to a slow belly is unwarranted.
The jelly turned out well. The apple padding for pectin and bulk, meant that it set perfectly, like one would expect purchased jelly to be. It's tart taste makes it a favourite for people without a very sweet tooth.
This year, the sloes are everywhere. Each tree competing with another to display the prolific crop. We are still picking pailfills, hoping to freeze as many as possible for future use. Traditionally, they are picked after the first frost, which traditionally is supposed to be around now. But summer had different ideas...or is it better to say the Lord Jesus had different ideas?
Our recipe this year has been to use far less apples, just one or two cupt us, pips core and all, for pectin. Surprisingly there is little difference in the taste, but it does make the jelly more authentically 'sloe berry' and not so much 'apple and sloe berry'.
It takes time to pick sloes. Many of the best are out of reach. The physical job of picking them causes one to ponder. Each sloe is picked by hand, much like olives used to be. The community, one supposes, got together and went from orchard to orchard hand-picking the olives, eating, resting and chattering in the warmth as rest times allowed. Communal, productive and caring. No heavy equipment to give the tree hiccups after the determined shake. Does the shaking affect the fruit? Do the olive trees say 'No not again! Last year my roots broke up near the surface and it has taken all year to recover?' Who knows?
And gone too is the community spirit. The young people are left with little means of self support and wander off to the cities looking for a 'better life'. No life in the open air, no enjoying the beauty of the world around them, no bird sounds, no simple meals. Is this really progress?
SLOE BERRY RECIPE
Wash the sloes. You do not need to de-stalk them
Add one or two apples, cut up, core pips and all.
Place in a pot and just cover with water.
Boil until sloes are mushy. Use a potato masher to help this process if necessary. Skim foam off the top.
Allow to cool down enough to handle
Put through a muslin sieve.
Mine looks like this.
Allow to drip overnight. Do not squeeze.
Measure the liquid in litres. Add sugar weight 75% of the liquid measurement.
E.g. 900 ml = 900 x 75/100 = 67500 /100 = 675 grams
Add the sugar to the pot, squeeze in juice of one lemon and bring to the boil.
Turn down heat to medium and allow to boil until a sample of the liquid in a spoon
starts to set. It turns tacky.
Turn off heat.
Pour into prepared jars (sterilized and hot)
(I used clingfilm to cover the jars without lids unil I could get wax to seal them. Then just add a cloth cover sealed with a rubber band. Makes a nice gift for a friend.)
This is the finished product
Monday, 1 August 2016
El Salvador on a personal level
We lived for 3 months in a secure housing area in Santa Tecla, at the bottom of El Boqueron, San Salvador's volcano. What blessings the Lord gives to those that love Him. Now we know why people live in a volcanic area! It is quite spectacular having a soaring mountain as a backdrop to a town sprawled at its feet. What if it erupts though? It has done so before, the last eruption being recorded between June and Novermber 1917.
The slopes of the volcano are being developed for tourism. At various points up the side of it there are restaurants and cafes where paranamic views of San Salvador can be viewed in the valley below. These facilities are aimed at families with young children with activities to keep them busy. Then there is the much much more daunting offer of climbing down into Boqueron's caldera with its high vertical sides to view the pimple which is the cinder cone from the 1917 eruption.
One takes one's hat off to those who conquer this.
On the far side of the mountain lies lonely Coatepeque, not yet drawn into the warm enticing circle of tourism.
We took an easy walk up to the top of the caldera to look down into the hole blasted out by molten rocks. A barrier exists at the top to prevent accidents and stop people falling into the valley below.
Entrepenerial el salvadorans circumvent the authorities to offer for sale water and snacks to puffed out tourists who have not taken along anything remotely resembling a picnic, being unprepared for the physical exertion they experience. One such entrepeneer was perched on a sliver of rock outside the barrier with his wears which he sold all the while in danger of falling into the valley below.
One had to admire such industry and fortitude. He would almost certainly be without education yet this had not crushed his spirit or damned him to a pauper's early death. He was doing what he could with what he had, even if he risked his life to do it. With so many natural resources, why are Governments so miserly with their largess? Are we all so afraid of looking out for ourselves instead
of sharing what we have with others that we are blinded by the fact that G-d's provision is for all, and all should be encouraged to partake?
Another family seated themselves on the bench just outside the barrier on the circular pathway down into the caldera, ready to sell to those who went down and those who returned.
Why do Governments oppress the poor? Yet El Salvador does it less than other places (not many) we have visited. Most media outputs about this country are downputs. We found it and its people delightful, humble, simple and human.
Might this have had something to do with Archbishop Romero who served the poor more than the
rich?
Vendors existed outside the car park selling flowers, hand made jewellery, bulbs and anything else that might produce a sale.
The people were invariably friendly and pleased to see visitors to their country. The poor have a dignity unparalled elsewhere. They do menial jobs without demur, many like the coffee pickers, live on a dollar a day. (Woe to an industry which so exploits the poor. Zimbabwe coffee pickers fare no better).
The slopes of the volcano are being developed for tourism. At various points up the side of it there are restaurants and cafes where paranamic views of San Salvador can be viewed in the valley below. These facilities are aimed at families with young children with activities to keep them busy. Then there is the much much more daunting offer of climbing down into Boqueron's caldera with its high vertical sides to view the pimple which is the cinder cone from the 1917 eruption.
One takes one's hat off to those who conquer this.
On the far side of the mountain lies lonely Coatepeque, not yet drawn into the warm enticing circle of tourism.
We took an easy walk up to the top of the caldera to look down into the hole blasted out by molten rocks. A barrier exists at the top to prevent accidents and stop people falling into the valley below.
Entrepenerial el salvadorans circumvent the authorities to offer for sale water and snacks to puffed out tourists who have not taken along anything remotely resembling a picnic, being unprepared for the physical exertion they experience. One such entrepeneer was perched on a sliver of rock outside the barrier with his wears which he sold all the while in danger of falling into the valley below.
One had to admire such industry and fortitude. He would almost certainly be without education yet this had not crushed his spirit or damned him to a pauper's early death. He was doing what he could with what he had, even if he risked his life to do it. With so many natural resources, why are Governments so miserly with their largess? Are we all so afraid of looking out for ourselves instead
of sharing what we have with others that we are blinded by the fact that G-d's provision is for all, and all should be encouraged to partake?
Another family seated themselves on the bench just outside the barrier on the circular pathway down into the caldera, ready to sell to those who went down and those who returned.
Why do Governments oppress the poor? Yet El Salvador does it less than other places (not many) we have visited. Most media outputs about this country are downputs. We found it and its people delightful, humble, simple and human.
Might this have had something to do with Archbishop Romero who served the poor more than the
rich?
Vendors existed outside the car park selling flowers, hand made jewellery, bulbs and anything else that might produce a sale.
The people were invariably friendly and pleased to see visitors to their country. The poor have a dignity unparalled elsewhere. They do menial jobs without demur, many like the coffee pickers, live on a dollar a day. (Woe to an industry which so exploits the poor. Zimbabwe coffee pickers fare no better).
Riding to raise funds
Our daughter, Carmen and her husband, Reuben undertook a day's cycle, aiming to reach 200 km, last Saturday in order to raise money for Tammy and Rob's (sister and husband) voluntary trip to Zimbabwe to work for a year in Zimbabwe's mental health and education sector. They were joined by cousin Disa on the way back.
Unfortunately, Carmen's bike (new) got stuck in one gear which slowed their progress. The total was 131 km and another 19 was added at the gym on their return in the last 55 minutes.
All of them, except Rob, were born in Zimbabwe and are giving something back - seeding for the future there.
Unfortunately, Carmen's bike (new) got stuck in one gear which slowed their progress. The total was 131 km and another 19 was added at the gym on their return in the last 55 minutes.
All of them, except Rob, were born in Zimbabwe and are giving something back - seeding for the future there.
Friday, 15 July 2016
Halal
Early Christians were regularly admonished not to eat 'food offered to idols'. Here are a few ideas about what this might mean.
Starting with 'halal'. We lived opposite a 'halal' butchery. Having had an unpleasant experience with issues over islam, i became wary of all things connected with it. Knowing what 'kosher' meant, i understood that the killing of meat had to be done in such a way that the blood did not remain in the flesh, it needed to be allowed to bleed out of the animal, because 'the life is in the blood', and as a result, the eating of blood was forbidden.
Halal follows the same general guideline, with one specific difference. At the slaying, the abbatoir worker faces Mecca and offers the animal as a sacrifice to allah, praying over it that allah is the great god etc. This was confirmed by the halal butchery opposite us. This to me, is offering a sacrifice to an idol, for allah is not the Christian God. Food outlets like Pizza Express, Nandos, KFC, Redhot and Subway are pretty much all halal. They don't advertise this though, unless explicitily asked if you ar eating halal meat. This is pretty offensive. One does not expect halal in the West.
Then there is the more specific explanation where the Greek word for 'sacrifices to idols' has been examined by men of learning. One outcome of this is that 'sacrifices to idols' is that which commonly took place in communities at that time, amd still does in some communities today. This is where a meal is partaken in a shrine set up for the dead. The shrine may be large or small, but the theme behind the offering stays the same. Because of the amounts of alcohol consumed at these gatherings, impropriety easily resulted, manifested by sexual immorality among the guests.
There is ofcourse always the option of going vegetarian. That solves the 'halal' issue, but does not solve the 'meal to the dead' issue. El Salvador, for instance, honour their dead with a display of flowers. If you believe, God is a God of the living, and we all live before Him, then graveside vigils are unnecessary.
It is better to aim for the fullness of the Holy Spirit in this life and hope for eternal life, making love your aim now, while you can.
Tuesday, 13 March 2012
Mom's Thumb Reviews: DG body Ultra Moisturizing Lotion (Compare to Jerg...
Mom's Thumb Reviews: DG body Ultra Moisturizing Lotion (Compare to Jerg...: Details : Ultra Moisturizing Lotion takes your roughest spots - heels, elbows, and knees - from a state of extreme dryness to a state o...
Friday, 27 January 2012
The Greeks Go To Pieces At Loughton School
Watched Loughton School's year 5 play tonight with Ray, entitled "The Greeks Go To Pieces". It evolved around ancient Greek history in a light-hearted manner, with many a catchy tune sung with verve and enthusiasm by the Chorus. Standing on a table against the wall, behind the audience a male teacher and his female teacher helper held aloft, every so often, for the performing caste to see, a placard bearing the injunction 'LOUDER' or 'SMILE', and perhaps other useful suggestions, to which the singer's on stage duly responded.
The leading role was taken by a girl, probably ten or eleven years of age, with a calm proficiency astonishing in one of such tender years. The tunes were catchy, obviously carried a message furthering the plot, underlining elements of importance in the unraveling plot concerning perpetual hostility between Spartans and Athenians, fueling an animosity arising from a supposed cause so far back in the history of both sides that nobody actually knew what they were fighting about.
The message, cynical and profound, entertainingly conveyed, will stand these little class fivers in good stead during years to come. Who knows, the lighting ghost of one, or more than one, of these songs many sound in the ears of one of these little actors, in years to come, who by then is in a position to respond to some international crisis in a manner preventing the passing of a controversial bill in parliament, stimulating second thoughts concerning critical issues between nations and peoples, averting a Third World War.
Such is the power of words set to music! It reaches into the corners and crevices of the mind and emotions beyond the reach of simple oratory. Hence the response of patriots to a national anthem, confirming commitment to their country's cause; or the forces of an army awaiting the signal to launch an attack, stiffening the sinews, summoning up the blood; or an elderly rugby supporter standing to the massed voices of his countryman at the outset of a Test match in Cardiff, causing the tears to stream from his closed eyes as he sings.
Hence the war songs of nations all over the world expressing a grievance, stating a truth, declaring commitment of perceived truth held with determination most desperate 0 'Ours vir jou, Suid Afrika', the most emotional finale to an anthem in my youthful experience, could have fired me to a dedication terminally desperate were it not concerning a country not my own.
So too, the lifting melodies of tonight's performance may plant some certain chords of resonance that, in association with simple truths concerning basic values of human nature might respond to stimuli of association in circumstances of the future that might chart new courses in the progress of mankind.
Meanwhile, judging from the expression on their little faces, most of the singers simply enjoyed delivering the songs. Perhaps among the audience, others like me, hardened to the ways of the world, distrustful of spontaneous emotion, might nevertheless determine to investigate more closely, or for the first time, the thoughts behind the actions of those old Greeks.
In whatever manner we responded, it was an evening enjoyable and well-spent.
National Anthems of the World
Greek National Anthem (in Greek) (Greek Edition)
by Guest Blogger
The leading role was taken by a girl, probably ten or eleven years of age, with a calm proficiency astonishing in one of such tender years. The tunes were catchy, obviously carried a message furthering the plot, underlining elements of importance in the unraveling plot concerning perpetual hostility between Spartans and Athenians, fueling an animosity arising from a supposed cause so far back in the history of both sides that nobody actually knew what they were fighting about.
The message, cynical and profound, entertainingly conveyed, will stand these little class fivers in good stead during years to come. Who knows, the lighting ghost of one, or more than one, of these songs many sound in the ears of one of these little actors, in years to come, who by then is in a position to respond to some international crisis in a manner preventing the passing of a controversial bill in parliament, stimulating second thoughts concerning critical issues between nations and peoples, averting a Third World War.
Such is the power of words set to music! It reaches into the corners and crevices of the mind and emotions beyond the reach of simple oratory. Hence the response of patriots to a national anthem, confirming commitment to their country's cause; or the forces of an army awaiting the signal to launch an attack, stiffening the sinews, summoning up the blood; or an elderly rugby supporter standing to the massed voices of his countryman at the outset of a Test match in Cardiff, causing the tears to stream from his closed eyes as he sings.
Hence the war songs of nations all over the world expressing a grievance, stating a truth, declaring commitment of perceived truth held with determination most desperate 0 'Ours vir jou, Suid Afrika', the most emotional finale to an anthem in my youthful experience, could have fired me to a dedication terminally desperate were it not concerning a country not my own.
So too, the lifting melodies of tonight's performance may plant some certain chords of resonance that, in association with simple truths concerning basic values of human nature might respond to stimuli of association in circumstances of the future that might chart new courses in the progress of mankind.
Meanwhile, judging from the expression on their little faces, most of the singers simply enjoyed delivering the songs. Perhaps among the audience, others like me, hardened to the ways of the world, distrustful of spontaneous emotion, might nevertheless determine to investigate more closely, or for the first time, the thoughts behind the actions of those old Greeks.
In whatever manner we responded, it was an evening enjoyable and well-spent.
National Anthems of the World
Greek National Anthem (in Greek) (Greek Edition)
by Guest Blogger
Monday, 23 January 2012
Next Year In Jerusalem
The New Year starts out full of hope and promise. Don't know why this is so, because it's just another day.
Next year in Jerusalem! How long, down the centuries, has that cry gone out. And what pathos and longing it stirs. We should be joining in with the thousands who make that cry! Next year in Jerusalem!
It's like the cry of a Christian, 'Come quickly, Lord Jesus'. As the Christian waits for the return of the Lord, so does the Jew wait for the restoration of all things. That's what the cry is for - next year in Jerusalem.
Two different perspectives, two equal longings, the same and yet different. Christians know that it is the Lord Jesus who restores all things, restores relationships, restores nations, builds nations, brings down nations, but in the heart of a believer, it is still - next year in Jerusalem.
The days of our lives on earth should be full of good works and the looking forward to good things. We don't have long to spend on earth, we have a 'better and enduring substance' - a life on earth and yet not on earth.
The angels of the Israel of God looked out for nation. The angels of the Church today, do the same. They watched over the Seven Churches of Revelation. Let Christians likewise, watch out for the will of God, and the word of God to be done on earth.
There is nothing wrong with that. Jesus would always have gathered the nation of Israel under 'His wing', but they often didn't want to know. The Gentiles have inherited something wonderful from faithful Abraham. They have the right and privilege to have been grafted into God's nation. What a wonderful happening! What a wonderful inheritance.
So Christians watch and wait, like Jews do. They wait for the Revelation of the Restorer of All Things, our blessed and beloved Jesus Christ.
Next year in Jerusalem! How long, down the centuries, has that cry gone out. And what pathos and longing it stirs. We should be joining in with the thousands who make that cry! Next year in Jerusalem!
It's like the cry of a Christian, 'Come quickly, Lord Jesus'. As the Christian waits for the return of the Lord, so does the Jew wait for the restoration of all things. That's what the cry is for - next year in Jerusalem.
Two different perspectives, two equal longings, the same and yet different. Christians know that it is the Lord Jesus who restores all things, restores relationships, restores nations, builds nations, brings down nations, but in the heart of a believer, it is still - next year in Jerusalem.
The days of our lives on earth should be full of good works and the looking forward to good things. We don't have long to spend on earth, we have a 'better and enduring substance' - a life on earth and yet not on earth.
The angels of the Israel of God looked out for nation. The angels of the Church today, do the same. They watched over the Seven Churches of Revelation. Let Christians likewise, watch out for the will of God, and the word of God to be done on earth.
There is nothing wrong with that. Jesus would always have gathered the nation of Israel under 'His wing', but they often didn't want to know. The Gentiles have inherited something wonderful from faithful Abraham. They have the right and privilege to have been grafted into God's nation. What a wonderful happening! What a wonderful inheritance.
So Christians watch and wait, like Jews do. They wait for the Revelation of the Restorer of All Things, our blessed and beloved Jesus Christ.
Tuesday, 20 December 2011
Do You Need Facebook To Make New Friends This Christmas?
What's Facebook got to do with life? One reads that if you are not on Facebook then life is passing you by. Hmmmm.
The last 20 hours has been a period of time that lifts up the heart and causes a real sense of joy and goodwill toward men. It started yesterday evening....
After a hectic day which saw friends missing their flight to visit family because the nearby International Airport security was so slow, re-arranging their tickets for later in the day (and yes, they had to pay for another set of tickets - the airline said it wasn't their fault that security was so slow), fitting in Christmas shopping, another trip to the airport to deliver the friends a second time and more Christmas shopping, it was no wonder that with all the parcels and a 10 year old in tow, I lost my book of 'cards'. Bus pass, debit card and another 10 personal bits of information which made up part of my little identity. All lost, and what's more, I hadn't even realized it.
Soon after arriving home in the evening the phone rang. An Asian voice spoke at the other end having the usual difficulty with the pronunciation of my surname. Feeling as though the patience of Job was called for I suffered his attempts at identifying me and was waiting to tell him that, in fact, we didn't accept telephone sales and that our number was ex-directory so therefore, how was it that he had got it, when he asked me if I had noticed that my cards were lost.
Well, you can imagine my swift change of attitude! After arranging a time to meet in the morning and him identifying himself (so we could recognize him) as tall, dark and handsome, we met him this morning for coffee and this was his story.
He had just purchased an item from a shop in the shopping Mall and was on his way home when he felt prompted to go back and sit down in the nearby central seating area for a few minutes. Doing so, he noticed a paper bag on the floor partly under the bench. A few seconds later another man close-by, picked up the bag and asked our new found friend if it belonged to him.
Our new friend again, feeling prompted, said, 'yes, it is mine'. Looking inside, he found my plastic folder of cards. Going home, his first thought on how to deal with the situation was to report it to the police, which he duly did. They wanted him to come up to the Police station. At night, in the rain, and walking! Well, the Officer said, bring it tomorrow.
Still feeling unsettled by the incident, he decided to try to find me personally. First, he tried Facebook. No joy. But among the cards was a Postal delivery note for collection from the nearest depot. This had our badly written address on it, which meant finding us on Google maps was ruled out, as Google didn't recognise the street address. Next, he typed my name into Google and finding my telephone listed under a Church, he rang.
What amazed him was the persistent feeling that God loved this unknown person very much. Our new friend could not divest himself of this perception.
Although he was brought up in a family where his mother was a strong Christian and, apart from her own job, also voluntarily preached the gospel, he himself had only recently had a born-again experience.
He was now actively asking the Lord, (as we call Him) to show him how best to live his life. Discovering that I was a Christian - as evidenced by my contact to our Church, he could not wait to tell me what a blessing the experience had been for him, and I myself found it so special, I could not wait to write it down.
Christ, the Giver. Even at this Christmas time, 2011 years later, still giving. Still uniting man with man, still working so that the love and unity which He determined so long ago in Himself - as His kingdom - making in Himself, people from every nation, one new creation! Who can find words to express the absolute beauty of this?
Two other little points. I had asked our Church secretary to please remove my phone number from the internet. She never had. And my own pronunciation of unfamiliar words which occur in people from a different tongue and culture to my own, is far from perfect.
So Facebook, can you deliver an experience like this? The answer is just a plain, simple 'No'. Do I really need you then? No, Facebook, I don't. Long after your day has come and gone, Christ will still be with us. That's reason for a shout of 'Hallelujah'!
The last 20 hours has been a period of time that lifts up the heart and causes a real sense of joy and goodwill toward men. It started yesterday evening....
After a hectic day which saw friends missing their flight to visit family because the nearby International Airport security was so slow, re-arranging their tickets for later in the day (and yes, they had to pay for another set of tickets - the airline said it wasn't their fault that security was so slow), fitting in Christmas shopping, another trip to the airport to deliver the friends a second time and more Christmas shopping, it was no wonder that with all the parcels and a 10 year old in tow, I lost my book of 'cards'. Bus pass, debit card and another 10 personal bits of information which made up part of my little identity. All lost, and what's more, I hadn't even realized it.
Soon after arriving home in the evening the phone rang. An Asian voice spoke at the other end having the usual difficulty with the pronunciation of my surname. Feeling as though the patience of Job was called for I suffered his attempts at identifying me and was waiting to tell him that, in fact, we didn't accept telephone sales and that our number was ex-directory so therefore, how was it that he had got it, when he asked me if I had noticed that my cards were lost.
Well, you can imagine my swift change of attitude! After arranging a time to meet in the morning and him identifying himself (so we could recognize him) as tall, dark and handsome, we met him this morning for coffee and this was his story.
He had just purchased an item from a shop in the shopping Mall and was on his way home when he felt prompted to go back and sit down in the nearby central seating area for a few minutes. Doing so, he noticed a paper bag on the floor partly under the bench. A few seconds later another man close-by, picked up the bag and asked our new found friend if it belonged to him.
Our new friend again, feeling prompted, said, 'yes, it is mine'. Looking inside, he found my plastic folder of cards. Going home, his first thought on how to deal with the situation was to report it to the police, which he duly did. They wanted him to come up to the Police station. At night, in the rain, and walking! Well, the Officer said, bring it tomorrow.
Still feeling unsettled by the incident, he decided to try to find me personally. First, he tried Facebook. No joy. But among the cards was a Postal delivery note for collection from the nearest depot. This had our badly written address on it, which meant finding us on Google maps was ruled out, as Google didn't recognise the street address. Next, he typed my name into Google and finding my telephone listed under a Church, he rang.
What amazed him was the persistent feeling that God loved this unknown person very much. Our new friend could not divest himself of this perception.
Although he was brought up in a family where his mother was a strong Christian and, apart from her own job, also voluntarily preached the gospel, he himself had only recently had a born-again experience.
He was now actively asking the Lord, (as we call Him) to show him how best to live his life. Discovering that I was a Christian - as evidenced by my contact to our Church, he could not wait to tell me what a blessing the experience had been for him, and I myself found it so special, I could not wait to write it down.
Christ, the Giver. Even at this Christmas time, 2011 years later, still giving. Still uniting man with man, still working so that the love and unity which He determined so long ago in Himself - as His kingdom - making in Himself, people from every nation, one new creation! Who can find words to express the absolute beauty of this?
Two other little points. I had asked our Church secretary to please remove my phone number from the internet. She never had. And my own pronunciation of unfamiliar words which occur in people from a different tongue and culture to my own, is far from perfect.
So Facebook, can you deliver an experience like this? The answer is just a plain, simple 'No'. Do I really need you then? No, Facebook, I don't. Long after your day has come and gone, Christ will still be with us. That's reason for a shout of 'Hallelujah'!
Friday, 16 December 2011
The Urge To Explain
The shower of rain, snow, whirlwinds, cold, frozen rivers.... He leads the thick clouds with moisture; the clouds scatter His lightning. They turn around and round by His guidance to accomplish all the He commands them on the face of the habitable world."
These are the words of Scripture. Either you accept them for what they say, or you do not. If you argue poetic licence, the unfeasibility of expressing truths beyond our understanding in words we can comprehend, you have a difficulty - for who is to decide what is intended to be taken literally, at face value, and what has to be interpreted, in the light of other scriptures, in order to arrive a their proper, intended meaning.
If one is to retain one's faith in scripture as the Word of God, studying the Word prayerfully in the light of the whole - comparing scripture with scripture as we are specifically instructed to do - will not the Truth contained in the whole shine forth?
If there is doubt on this score, the value of the Word is mightily diminished, is it not? For its true perception belongs only to the elite - those who can read it in the original text, or those enjoying the resources of time and money enabling them to purchase the Word in their own familiar language, and a commentary, Bible dictionary and any other study aids as required by the reader, according to their abilities and available time.
Even given the availability of both these commodities (in adequate quantities), one is still faced with the task of deciding which interpretation among the many, one will decide upon as most trustworthy, accurate, applicable to one's own circumstances. It appears that the field of theological study is littered with the landmines of conflicting interpretation and application. What, then, is one to do?
How can one be certain that any particular resource is the correct one? The issue is not one to be taken lightly. It is crucial. Down the centureis peoples, tribes, individuals, nations, companies of nations, have argued differing interpretations, each belief system held with an integrity so passionate that rivers of blood have been shed in defence of (even by methods contradictory to,) a particular body of belief, expressed in a particular manner of worship.
Does this process, seemingly as inevitable as it is ghastly, not undermine to the point of irrefutable contradiction, the principles, claims, the very validity of most religions? Man feels himself obliged to have some account of his existence. He is, unavoidably, aware of not just the wonder of his own being, but also of creation all about him.
There is so much about it that he cannot understand. Yet, it seems, Man has, in his deepest consciousness, his inner being, a compulsion to acknowledge some force, some process, most satisfyingly some Being, to account for his existence, and therefore intimately involved in his manner of life, his survival.
Inevitably, differing concepts of this source of origin will find expression in the formulation of a system of belief principles conducive to the well-being, even the survival, of clusters of humanity in various part of the globe, perhaps of the cosmos. Sooner or later the disparate clusters, each with it's own interpretation, understanding and manifestation of that perception of their origin, character and destiny, will come into conflict.
Why the two groups, meeting, could not amalgamate in a pooling of resources for the betterment of both must be due to what has been cynically termed the Selfish Gene. Whatever the reason, the outcome has been continual competition and dispute, the survival of the fittest, with all the ugly, unpleasant connotations this implies.
What seems to emerge, then, is that Mankind, as a whole, has failed to perceive or to live out its destiny. The fragmentation of the species has resulted more in competition than co-operation. It is now, at this time in the history of Creation, the responsibility of individuals to seek for themselves the verities of our existence and to put them into practice.
Those who seek the truth in spiritual realities would seem to do this best - for themselves and for Creation as a whole.
These are the words of Scripture. Either you accept them for what they say, or you do not. If you argue poetic licence, the unfeasibility of expressing truths beyond our understanding in words we can comprehend, you have a difficulty - for who is to decide what is intended to be taken literally, at face value, and what has to be interpreted, in the light of other scriptures, in order to arrive a their proper, intended meaning.
If one is to retain one's faith in scripture as the Word of God, studying the Word prayerfully in the light of the whole - comparing scripture with scripture as we are specifically instructed to do - will not the Truth contained in the whole shine forth?
If there is doubt on this score, the value of the Word is mightily diminished, is it not? For its true perception belongs only to the elite - those who can read it in the original text, or those enjoying the resources of time and money enabling them to purchase the Word in their own familiar language, and a commentary, Bible dictionary and any other study aids as required by the reader, according to their abilities and available time.
Even given the availability of both these commodities (in adequate quantities), one is still faced with the task of deciding which interpretation among the many, one will decide upon as most trustworthy, accurate, applicable to one's own circumstances. It appears that the field of theological study is littered with the landmines of conflicting interpretation and application. What, then, is one to do?
How can one be certain that any particular resource is the correct one? The issue is not one to be taken lightly. It is crucial. Down the centureis peoples, tribes, individuals, nations, companies of nations, have argued differing interpretations, each belief system held with an integrity so passionate that rivers of blood have been shed in defence of (even by methods contradictory to,) a particular body of belief, expressed in a particular manner of worship.
Does this process, seemingly as inevitable as it is ghastly, not undermine to the point of irrefutable contradiction, the principles, claims, the very validity of most religions? Man feels himself obliged to have some account of his existence. He is, unavoidably, aware of not just the wonder of his own being, but also of creation all about him.
There is so much about it that he cannot understand. Yet, it seems, Man has, in his deepest consciousness, his inner being, a compulsion to acknowledge some force, some process, most satisfyingly some Being, to account for his existence, and therefore intimately involved in his manner of life, his survival.
Inevitably, differing concepts of this source of origin will find expression in the formulation of a system of belief principles conducive to the well-being, even the survival, of clusters of humanity in various part of the globe, perhaps of the cosmos. Sooner or later the disparate clusters, each with it's own interpretation, understanding and manifestation of that perception of their origin, character and destiny, will come into conflict.
Why the two groups, meeting, could not amalgamate in a pooling of resources for the betterment of both must be due to what has been cynically termed the Selfish Gene. Whatever the reason, the outcome has been continual competition and dispute, the survival of the fittest, with all the ugly, unpleasant connotations this implies.
What seems to emerge, then, is that Mankind, as a whole, has failed to perceive or to live out its destiny. The fragmentation of the species has resulted more in competition than co-operation. It is now, at this time in the history of Creation, the responsibility of individuals to seek for themselves the verities of our existence and to put them into practice.
Those who seek the truth in spiritual realities would seem to do this best - for themselves and for Creation as a whole.
Wednesday, 14 December 2011
Giving To Charity
As a badge-wearing volunteer collector over several years for a well-known Charity operating under the auspices of a small local church, I am sometimes challenged by church-goers and non-churchgoers alike, as to the ethics of systematic, house-to-house collection of donations from the general public. No-one, in my experience, has reacted angrily to my knock on their door. At most, those uncomfortable with being asked if they wish to donate respond either with a silent shake of the head, or an explanation that they donate regularly elsewhere. In private, they might fall into the category of those who consider it a violation of privacy to be faced with such a question. They may have a point. Or else simply do not wish to donate and feel a certain discomfort about having to say so. I prefer to attribute their reservations to a possible sense of unease at having that point of view at all, but this may well just arise from my own attitude on the subject. Whatever the case, I have experienced nothing approaching aggression nor any outright rudeness at all.
Our method is to drop a plastic carry-bag printed with the name of the Charity through the door of individual houses, together with a polite note to the effect that we will be calling again in a week to collect any donation the receiver would like to make. When we call for the second time, a glance at the badge we wear to denote our particular organisation is usually enough to evoke the response - the silent head-shake, a bewildered expression of ignorance, often followed by a delving in the pocket for a donation anyway, or in the worst case, a silent, expressionless shutting of the door.
Others respond not with the bag, but with a regretful half-smile at a small donation, invested, though they might not know it, with all the glory of the widow's mite mentioned in scripture.
Then there are those who cheerfully produce our bag, with the donation enclosed.
Smiles all round, on our part, at almost every transaction. From myself, on behalf of those who will benefit, a grateful thanks. A modest smile from the donor. Everyone happy.
Is this, as some would have it, the palliative devised by fortunate 'haves' to quieten their conscience regarding the less fortunate 'have nots'? I would say, without hesitation, a definite "No!". The Church for whom we few collectors operate is not in what would be considered a wealthy part of town. No-one appears to suffer from any obvious effects of poverty, but neither does anyone vaunt the visual attributes of wealth. Some of those who open the doors are discomfited by being unable to give. A small minority shook their heads, a few in embarrassed disapproval, most of them apologetically. The great majority contribute willingly, with a smile, even if their carry-bag contains just a token of their sympathetic willingness. It is a moment of shared humanity. Warm with the truth of something far deeper than the economics of circumstance. The Bible expresses it clearly: "It is more blessed to give than to receive."
Our method is to drop a plastic carry-bag printed with the name of the Charity through the door of individual houses, together with a polite note to the effect that we will be calling again in a week to collect any donation the receiver would like to make. When we call for the second time, a glance at the badge we wear to denote our particular organisation is usually enough to evoke the response - the silent head-shake, a bewildered expression of ignorance, often followed by a delving in the pocket for a donation anyway, or in the worst case, a silent, expressionless shutting of the door.
Others respond not with the bag, but with a regretful half-smile at a small donation, invested, though they might not know it, with all the glory of the widow's mite mentioned in scripture.
Then there are those who cheerfully produce our bag, with the donation enclosed.
Smiles all round, on our part, at almost every transaction. From myself, on behalf of those who will benefit, a grateful thanks. A modest smile from the donor. Everyone happy.
Is this, as some would have it, the palliative devised by fortunate 'haves' to quieten their conscience regarding the less fortunate 'have nots'? I would say, without hesitation, a definite "No!". The Church for whom we few collectors operate is not in what would be considered a wealthy part of town. No-one appears to suffer from any obvious effects of poverty, but neither does anyone vaunt the visual attributes of wealth. Some of those who open the doors are discomfited by being unable to give. A small minority shook their heads, a few in embarrassed disapproval, most of them apologetically. The great majority contribute willingly, with a smile, even if their carry-bag contains just a token of their sympathetic willingness. It is a moment of shared humanity. Warm with the truth of something far deeper than the economics of circumstance. The Bible expresses it clearly: "It is more blessed to give than to receive."
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